


Brand Relations

by horselizard



Category: British Comedy RPF, Off Menu with Ed Gamble and James Acaster (Podcast)
Genre: Chocolate, Crack, Food Kink, Food Sex, Humor, Masturbation, Messy, Oral Fixation, Other, Shame, Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:46:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horselizard/pseuds/horselizard
Summary: "They’ve not asked me to tweet about it but I’m going to because this is very generous and I’m incredibly excited. I’m in a hotel and the bed was the only place I could take a photo, I’m not gonna bang the chocolate. Who am I kidding, we all know I am gonna bang the chocolate."– @JamesAcaster, 14th May 2019 (caption on a photo of eight bars and two bags of Whittaker's chocolate)Oh, James. Sometimes you make it too easy.





	Brand Relations

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: "Do your worst, anons. Make him bang the chocolate."
> 
> I did both of those things.

‘Who am I kidding, we all know I am gonna bang the chocolate,’ James typed as an afterthought, then hit the tweet button and put down his phone.

Maybe that had been a bad idea, actually. He’d probably get all kinds of nonsense in his mentions now. Still, it was funny. It was funny because he obviously wasn’t going to bang the chocolate. How would you even bang chocolate? That was why it was funny. He’d posted a funny tweet, end of story. Now to get on with his day.

Except now he had all that chocolate laid out on his bed, so many flavours of that goddamn delicious chocolate he hadn’t had in months. He hadn’t even bought any yet since arriving here, he’d been putting it off, trying to savour the anticipation, and now those wonderful bastards had sent the stuff right to him. Of _course_ he was going to have some now. He wasn’t made of stone. And he’d been going to brush his teeth in a minute anyway, so that probably meant it was fine.

He reverently opened one of the packets. Not his favourite flavour, he couldn’t go for that straight away, but his second favourite. That was reasonable, right?

He heard his phone buzz as he popped one of the little squares into his mouth. Ugh, probably his notifications blowing up. He wished he hadn’t said that thing about banging chocolate now, because his mind kept veering back to it, idly musing on how that would even work, picking apart the damn joke, while he was just trying to enjoy the flavour. God, it was good. He could hardly say he’d forgotten how good it was, he thought about the stuff too often for that to be possible, but to actually have it in his mouth, the sweetness coating his tongue, it was…

…And it didn’t exactly help matters that he’d been about to have a shower. He’d hastily thrown on a robe when the concierge had knocked to deliver the parcel, and then he had, very understandably, got distracted, so now he was sat almost naked on a hotel bed, next to an obscene amount of his favourite chocolate, wondering how he would bang it. Ridiculous! It was ridiculous. What would he do, make a little hole in it and stick his dick in? Ridiculous. He needed to stop thinking about it. It was just a stupid joke. It wasn’t even like he needed to try and spin five minutes of material out of this one. Almost angrily, in the hope that it would stun his overactive brain into silence, he broke off another piece of the chocolate and put it in his mouth, sucking hard on it, working it with his tongue, determinedly focusing on the delicious flavour.

Fuck, that was the stuff, all right. And actually, it wasn’t just the flavour – it was the feel of it in his mouth. He didn’t know how those guys did it, how they made it so much better than regular chocolate, but it just blew him away, every time. Why had he denied himself this for so long? He’d been so good. And there was so damn much of it, just spread out on his bed like an invitation. He could have a little more, surely. He could have another piece. Three pieces would still count as enjoying it in moderation.

But he realised he didn’t want just one more piece. The squares were so small, and the texture felt so good, he wanted – he just wanted to suck it. Just break off a big long strip and suck on it, like a popsicle or something. He’d never actually tried that. He could try that if he wanted to, couldn’t he? They’d sent him so much. It was basically their fault.

So he did. He carefully snapped off the whole edge of the bar, and pushed it slowly into his mouth. God, why had he not tried this before? It filled his mouth, pressed against his tongue, the intense flavour overwhelming as he pushed it back and forth past his lips. It felt so good… and yet somehow it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

He snapped off another strip of squares and eased it into his mouth alongside the first. It was getting a bit melty, actually, in this warm hotel room. He should really get it into the mini-fridge or something. In a minute, at any rate. Because right now his mouth was completely full of Whittaker’s chocolate, his lips stretched apart and his jaw pushed open, and he was sucking on it blissfully, working it back and forth as it melted against his tongue, and this was simultaneously the best idea he’d ever had and the worst, because it felt shamefully obscene.

Fuck. Fuck, it was too good, so much of the stuff, sparking on his tastebuds, and it was getting more and more melty as he pulled it in and out of his mouth, smearing all over his lips, and it wasn’t so much that he didn’t care, more that he just couldn’t stop himself, it felt so good, and… and he was getting erect.

Oh, shit. He flopped back onto the bed, his mouth still plugged with Berry Biscuit, and shut his eyes. Now he had _two_ uncontrollable urges to deal with. Both of which he’d been denying himself for a bit too long for comfort. _We all know I am gonna bang the chocolate_ floated across his vision, forty-one treacherous characters, and he really hated the past version of himself who had thought that was a funny joke, because this, this was just embarrassing.

Well, fuck it. Who would know? Who would ever know? (He instantly glanced around the room looking for CCTV cameras, and found none, and felt slightly less paranoid, about his own reputation if not about the safety of his laptop.) He needed this goddamn chocolate. And he needed to get himself off. And he was about to have a shower anyway. He wouldn’t be harming anyone if he… if he just…

He wasn’t going to touch his dick. He wouldn’t do that. That would be too weird. But he really, he needed… His fingers moved to his nipple almost without his consent, and then he realised they were sticky, and he was smearing melted chocolate over one of his own erogenous zones, and, _fuck_ , that felt good _too_ …

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to pull a half-melted strip of Berry Biscuit out of his mouth and start rubbing it over his chest. But he couldn’t help himself. He bucked his hips, his dick by now fully erect, his face flushed with arousal and shame and the New Zealand heat. He was making such a _mess_. He was being so _naughty_. And, God, now he needed more of it in his _mouth_.

He leaned over and feverishly plucked open another bar, sticky fingers shaking, trying not to get chocolate on the sheets. He hadn’t even been paying attention to which flavour it was until he rammed another strip of squares between his lips and started sucking, and one of the half-melted pieces leaked open and started dripping salted caramel down his throat. He let out a blissful, shameful moan, one hand continuing to haphazardly ram the stick of chocolate into and out of and around his mouth while the other moved to keep working at his sticky nipples.

His dick was leaking precome like crazy by now, the salty liquid dribbling onto his stomach, and he wasn’t gonna touch it, he swore he wasn’t gonna goddamn touch it, until he did touch it, impulsively whipping the lump of chocolate out of his mouth and rubbing it against his erection, fisting them both together. He groaned deliriously at the warm, sticky, slippery sensation, gripping hard against his dick and the chocolate, little pockets of salted caramel bursting under his fingers and smearing over his skin. And now, again, the problem was that there wasn’t enough in his _mouth_ , and he was too far gone to fumble with wrappers again, so he just raised his other hand to his lips and shoved in two chocolatey fingers, suckling them greedily.

He was desperate to come – for a start, once he’d finally come, he could stop this disgraceful behaviour and pretend it had never happened – but he was plateauing. He needed more. It was one of _those_ times, when he needed to… oh… oh no.

His cheeks flaming, he reached out clumsily and broke off some more chunks of salted caramel, his right hand still furiously working his dick. He dipped one chunk into his mouth and licked at it until it was good and melty, then set it down on his chest for long enough to ram the other between his lips, a chunk big enough to keep his tongue occupied, and muffle any cries he might (might!) be about to make. He picked up the first chunk again, drew his legs up, and reached his hand round under himself.

He felt it press against his arsehole, warm and slick, and he rubbed it back and forth, loosening himself up, until finally he was able to push it in. And then, of course, it all went to pieces, the soft chocolate collapsing under the pressure of his muscles, but it didn’t matter, it was enough. Sparks danced across his vision as he finally came, spunk shooting over his chest to join the mess of melted chocolate covering it, and sticky, sugary, salty liquid dripping from his arse.

Well, this was a low. Even for him, this was a low.

When his vision had finally cleared, and his breathing had finally slowed, and the familiar sense of humiliation had settled itself in to his bones, he dragged himself upright, and surveyed the damage. Fuck, he’d got it on the sheets. And his robe. He almost glimpsed himself in the full-length mirror as he turned around, and he turned away again quickly. He already knew he was a fucking mess, he could feel it very clearly, he didn’t need to see it too.

He tried to tell himself that the staff would clear it up, that they’d seen worse, that they probably wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. All of this was true, he was sure, but he went and washed his hands anyway (carefully avoiding eye contact with the bathroom mirror), gathered the surviving chocolate into the mini-fridge, stripped the sheets, and left them in a neat pile along with the robe and a medium-denomination note.

His phone buzzed again, sending a fresh wave of mortification through him. Fuck. Fuck. He would have to live with that tweet on his timeline forever now – he could hardly delete it, could he? that would look weird! – reminding him that _yep, he’d banged the chocolate_. Oh, God. People were probably making jokes about it right now. What if they _knew?_ What if, somehow, they could _sense_ it?

Panicky now, he scrolled through his phone, trying to think of something he could post to throw them off the scent (oh, God, the _smell_ as well, he smelt of chocolate and spunk and shame). Something someone who’d just spent the past ten minutes banging a Whittaker’s delivery definitely wouldn’t tweet. Like… that daft selfie he’d taken earlier, wearing that promotional T-shirt and hat. Yeah. Let them think that was from just now. Let them think he was wearing a stupid T-shirt and hat right now, rather than nothing but melted chocolate. It wasn’t like anyone would bother to look at the metadata.

He hit the tweet button, put down his phone, and hurried into the shower to scrub himself very hard indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> https://twitter.com/JamesAcaster/status/1128167243605405696
> 
> I've only just noticed that one of the flavours is called Hokey Pokey, and I now regret even more of my writing choices than I already did.


End file.
